


Salt

by ithinkyourewonderful



Category: The Doctor Blake Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-08 07:10:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7748062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ithinkyourewonderful/pseuds/ithinkyourewonderful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens after the kiss.  What happens if Jean and Lucien can't say all the things they should've said in Adelaide.  What happens when they finally do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Escape for thy life; look not behind thee, neither stay thou in all the plain; escape to the mountain, lest thou be consumed _(Gen. 19:17)_ But his wife looked back from behind him, and she became a pillar of salt. _(Gen. 19:26)_
> 
> I should live in salt for leaving you behind  
>  _(The National - I Should Live In Salt)_
> 
> Takes place after 4.08. Slightly OOC, not because I think it’s actually OOC but because the show has an almost sterile perspective of how characters handle some very dark and gritty circumstances and I like tolet them let their hair down. Also - consent is definitely sexy.

There's no saving anything  
But I won't be no runaway  
What makes you think I'm enjoying being led to the flood?  
We got another thing coming undone  
_(The National - Runaway)_

 

The evening is quiet. Uncomfortably so. Charlie, under some sort of foolish, romantic notion of a reunion has opted to stay out late leaving Lucien to putter about downstairs, uncertain and unsure what to do with Jean upstairs. He turns on the lights. He turns on the radio. He can still hear Jean above him. Sometimes it’s footfalls, sometimes it’s something being dragged or moved, sometimes it’s a piercing sob that stabs his heart. He hates that he’s done this to her. That he’s hurt his Jean. He’s a Blake however and that’s what they do to the women they love. They hurt them and ruin them and he wants this all to stop but he doesn’t know how. Mei Lin has left, but what does that mean? How can he ever fix this? There’s entirely too many questions and not enough answers.

He feels idle, nervous. It’s too early for bed, dusk only having set upon the house. It feels like an eternity since Jean pulled herself away from him - he knows it’s not gentlemanly, but he had never wanted her more than when she was in his arms. She was warm and real and every cell in his body cried out for every cell in hers. He pours a stiff drink and takes it in one shot before pouring another one. It’s going to be an incredibly long night and he knows already sleep will not come for him. Another sob pierces the silence and he just can’t take it anymore.

Spurred on by action and whisky, however foolish, he bounds up the stairs two at a time until he’s at her door. He can’t see her - the hall and her room dark - but he can hear her, there’s movement and there’s the sounds of someone trying to cry quietly. He’s more acquainted with that sound than he wants to be. In some ways it takes him back to his incarceration. “Jean?” He asks, a quick rap of the door with his knuckles. The sounds stop. “Jean, are you alright?” Complete silence. Then a quick sniffle and she calls out, her voice doing a decent job of mimicking her usual chipper tone, “Yes Lucien. Just fine.”  
“Good. Good. Listen, I was about to put on a kettle for tea - did you want some?”  
“No, no thank you. I think I’ll just head to bed early if you don’t mind.” It’s not really a question.  
“Sure, no, go right ahead.” He halts, uncertain of what to do. He moved away from the door and then back to it, and away once more. “The thing is Jean - I don’t suppose we can talk about everything?”  
“Tonight’s not really - not tonight Lucien.”  
“Yes, tonight Jean. Even if we have to have this conversation through the door - we need to have it. Tonight.” He’s not often this forceful, he doesn’t even know what to say, he just knows he needs to see her and if he can’t see her, he needs to hear her. He needs her. “Please, Jean?” He can hear her move about once more. Something drags once more. The closet door closes. He can see her shadows moving in the darkened room.

The door opens and she stands in the doorway, exhausted and tearstained but beautiful. His. “Jean-” He moves his hand towards her, any part of her, but she steps away, stepping further into the room. “Just talking.” She motions towards the bed as she takes a seat at her vanity. He’s glad that there’s no light on, that the dusk is swiftly turning into nightfall. “Just talking.” He repeats, settling himself carefully on the edge of her bed. Her bed. Desire floods him and recedes as quickly as a wave on the shore. God, he’s pathetic. “How are you?”  
“Oh, just fine.” Her voice rises in that sarcastic manner he’s come to love and he thinks perhaps there’s some hope, “You?”  
“I’m so sorry Jean. For everything. For Mei Lin, for not knowing she was alive, for not knowing what to do, for - hurting you. I never - I would never, and I did and I’m sorry.” The words are half-sentences, not quite full thoughts but he hopes she can piece them together. “Lucien, it’s fine.”  
“No, it’s not.” It’s really not, he can tell by her voice that she knows it’s not. He didn’t realise it until sitting in the dark with her, but her voice was so expressive. Was that just her, or was this all women who learned to develop this skill, a form of evolutionary defence? “I didn’t know what to do so I didn’t do anything and that hurt you. I hurt you both. But I hurt you Jean and I would never…I love you.” He peers at her, just making out the outline of her body in the chair, her back ramrod straight. “I’m sorry - I should’ve told you sooner. I should have told you on the bus, on your birthday, in Adelaide, when you came back. I should’ve told you so many times. I thought I’d have time. That we’d have time. That you’d know, that you knew - because you’re Jean and you know everything. I’m sorry.” And God, he really is. He’s looking down now, at his hands, at his shoes, at the carpet that he doesn’t notice her moving in the dark until he feels the bed dip beside him under her slight weight.

She murmurs something softly, he can’t quite make it out despite her proximity. And her proximity is close. Too close. They’ve sat closer on the couch, or in the car - but they were courting then and it was innocent. This is dangerous. This is in the dark, in her room. This is with her voice being deliciously ragged after crying. She places her head on his chest, like she had done so many months ago and he feels his heart leap, thinking he would never feel this particular joy again. He slides one arm around her and he doesn’t speak, terrified of ruining the moment and so he just breathes slowly, evenly, doing everything he could to not disturb her. After a moment she takes his free hand in hers and raises it to her lips. She brushes a kiss upon the knuckles. After a moment, she places another kiss, firm upon his palm, trying to speak to him without words. “One night Lucien. Please.”  
“Jean?” His own voice is hoarse now, his throat dry, his heart pounding - all from his desire of this woman. After another moment she lowers his hand and rather than release it, guides it to her breast, and tightens his fingers around his hand. That’s all he needs - she wants him as much as he wants her, if that’s even possible. She looks up at him and despite the darkness, he can just make out her eyes, wet with another round of tears which haven’t been shed yet. “I love you Jean,” He whispers, “I love you.” She doesn’t reply, only closing the distance between their lips and with that he’s done, he’s gone. His one hand begins to brush her breast delicately, while his other hand steadies them while he lowers them both down upon her bed.

His heart aches for her as much as his body does but he doesn’t rush this between them. He has waited for this for so long that he will make sure she enjoys every moment - that they both do. They are curled together, face to face, free in the darkness to explore with their hands and mouths the uncharted territory that is their lover’s body. They don’t speak of the tears staining their faces, the saltiness on their lips. They simply move against one another - hands drawing the other near, grazing over wool and cotton and curves and planes. Tonight she wants to make every cruel and vicious scrap of gossip and innuendo said about her come true - she wants to be his lover in every sense of the word. There’s a sigh of frustration - she knows his desire is losing out to his chivalry. Any other evening, any other time, she’d be thankful for it - but not tonight. She pushes herself upright and he rolls onto his back “I’m sorry Jean. I should-”  
“One night.” She repeats softly, shifting off the bed. With shaking hands, she beings to unbutton her white blouse. She can hear his breathing all but stop. She quickly hangs it on the handle of the closet door, and while her back is turned, she undoes her skirt, and steps out of it and hangs it with the shirt. She offers up a silent prayer for forgiveness, already knowing she will pay the price for this evening for the rest of her life - but she is tired of being strong, of being selfless, of being kind and honest and nice and giving. She want to take. She wants to be selfish. She wants Lucien and in this moment, everything in Heaven and Earth can be damned. She wants Lucien.

She turns around to find him sitting on the edge of the bed, watching her. “God, you’re beautiful.” He whispers, his eyes full of more emotions than she can identify . He undoes the buttons of his waistcoat while she steps forward between his legs and begins to loosen his tie. “Let me.” She says, stepping closer. She can feel his breath upon her belly and it clenches tight. She has envisioned this so many times, undressing him as he comes home late from a case, tired and possibly a little drunk before putting him to bed, waking up together. She won’t be deprived of this. Even if she’s about to be selfish and take this evening of happiness for herself, she craves giving him comfort as well. Her heart clenches at how much she enjoys being able to offer him comfort, no matter how slight. Her fingers have made short work of his shirt buttons and tie and with flat hands, runs them across his vested chest, over his defined shoulders and down his back before freeing his hands. She loves the sturdiness and the weight of his muscles. He exists. He’s there, on her bed, wrapping his arms around her slim waist. She drapes his shirt on the bedpost then places a kiss on the crown of his head, taking in a deep breath of his scent - brylcreem and soap. Her heart breaks that she can’t have this every night, that she can’t have this man every night, so she works on committing every moment and sensation to memory. She gasps softly as she feels him move his head against her body, his mouth placing a kiss at her sternum, nuzzling her chest through the slip before he shifts. Somehow she is now sitting upon his knees - her standing advantage gone - but the way he is kissing her where her skin meets the top of her garment, her collar bone, her throat, her neck she cannot bring herself to care. He holds tight to her waist and he begins to move his mouth back down until his lips glide over the slippery material - somewhere in the back of her mind, she is glad she bought a new slip while in Adelaide. She can feel him against the curve of her left breast and then suddenly he tugs lightly with his lips and she can’t help the sharp cry of desire that comes out of her mouth. That’s when he knows that this moment is real. Desire pulls in his belly and pulls sharply and he wants nothing more than to learn every square inch of this woman with him.

Tightening his grip on her, he eases them onto the bed and rolls so that Jean is beneath him. “Is this really alright Jean? Is this really what you want?” He peers at her, marvelling at how he has lived so long without knowing the feel of her stretched out against him. She nods and then rises to close the small distance between them to kiss him. He can feel her hands tugging his vest out from his pants, trying to get to his skin and he freezes for a moment before he takes her hands and lightly pins them above her head before he returns to his ministrations of her body. Eventually, he has no choice but to let them go as he continues to travel down her body. The slip has gathered at her hips, leaving her legs bare as he peppers her lower body with lavish kisses - her hips, her knees, her calves all under . He feels her freeze and he raises his head from where’s he’s discovered a small scar on her thigh, “Is this still alright?” He waits for a moment, watching Jean as she struggles with the question asked before she nods and lowers herself back down upon the bed. Relieved, he continues, stopping his explorations only when she tugs at his vest collar once more, half mumbling, half demanding “Off”. Before she knows it, he’s rolled them over once more, she’s now atop him, so seemingly small against him. He can’t help but want to protect her. Want to wrap his Jean up in his arms and keep her safe from everything dark and awful - even if that means him, especially if that means him - because now that he knows her like this, he refuses to live without her ever again. She murmurs something, her lips working against his neck, against his jaw, against his lips and and he doesn’t recall much after that, after guiding her on top of him. The sounds and tastes and smells and sensations are too much. It’s been so long since he’s felt anything this intimate, this all encompassing. Everything about making love to Jean overwhelms him - he fights to stay in the moment, to stay with her and not give in to the over stimulation threatening to shut him down. He doesn’t want to stop, he doesn’t think he could. He just wants to remain in this near-sacred space with her. It had been so long for him, for them both, but their bodies remember this, the acts of desire between two people. Their hips find their own private rhythm and he holds her tight against him. He marvels at the sight of his Jean coming undone - the moon has risen enough that they are no longer shapes and shadows in the dark, but they are themselves once more. Her bowed head, her bare shoulder, her strangled mew of release before she collapses against his chest, both exhausted and spent. Neither of them can keep their eyes open for long, the last few months having taken their toll on the both of them. Lucien blindly reaches for the edge of her blankets and pulls it up to cover them as best as it can without them having to move - warm and worn out, they fall asleep.

* * *

“Jean?” She snaps her head to his direction - he has the brightest, most heartfelt grin across his face and she thinks she’s going to be sick once more. She turns to the window and wrestles it open, sucking back deep lungfuls of crisp, cold air. “Jean, are you alright?”  
“Yes, quite.” She replies, contorting her face into a semblance of a smile before turning around to face him for a moment before returning back to the window. “Why do you ask?”

**TBC**


	2. Terrible Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But I won't follow you  
> Into the rabbit hole  
> …  
> It takes an ocean not to break
> 
> (The National - Terrible Love)

Thought the darkness of sleep and the sunshine bright in his eyes, much brighter than it normally is, he can smell the distinct smell of Jean - sharp talcum and soft musk. He can feel her shift atop him and he cannot help but smile when he opens his eyes to see her disheveled curls against his shoulder. If he tries hard enough, he can imagine this is how life will be from now on - waking up with the woman he loves beside him. He shifts softly, his lips curling up as her hand glides over his chest. Somehow everything has been set to rights between them. He’s torn between wanting to shake his lover awake (his lover, the thought alone makes him feel like a man of 20, not…well, of his more advanced age) and letting her sleep. He says a prayer of thanks to a deity he’s not certain he’s ever believed in that somehow there’s a light at the end of this ordeal and that Jean is with him. How did this woman who was nothing more than an annoyance to him somehow become his bedrock? An anchor without chains. 

He’s not certain how long he stays like this, drifting in and out of half-sleep until he can feel her stir atop of him. She stretches against him and he can’t help but hum and place a kiss on her shoulder. He has grown enamoured of it in the short time between last night and this morning. He likes how the skin is soft and thin and delicate but the muscle beneath is strong. “Good morning.” He can feel her dredge herself up from sleep, a surprise given how chipper she usually seems in the morning. “Lucien.” She finally greets him before making her way off the bed and fixing her slip. He doesn’t think she’ll ever look prettier than she does in that moment, cheeky rosy and eyes heavy with sleep as she’s tugging her slip back in place before she wraps herself in that awful pink robe. “Jean?” He wonders if he can burn it. He wonders how he can get her another one without drawing any attention at the shop in town. He’s hit with a bast of fresh morning air, with Jean practically hanging out of the window, “Jean, are you alright?” When she turns around, an imitation of a smile across her face, his heart breaks more completely and more thoroughly than it ever has. “Why do you ask?”   
“You’re lying.”  
“No I’m not. This room, this room smells of - I think I’m going to be sick.”  
“Jean.”  
“Lucien.” She cocks her head at an angle. “Charlie’s awake. What time is it?”  
“What’s wrong?” He can’t help but stare her down.  
“Charlie is awake, Lucien. That’s what’s wrong.” She tears her eyes away from him and glances down to the clock on the bedside table. “It’s seven. It’s seven and I’m not downstairs.”  
“So?”  
“I have breakfast ready at six forty five, Lucien. Perhaps you’ve never noticed, but I assure you others do. I need to bathe. I need to get ready, and you need to go back to your room.” She turns and gathers her towels, her change of clothes, muttering to herself.  
“Not until I know what’s happening.” He reaches for his shirt and slips it on.  
“I’ve told you. Now please, go downstairs and tell Charlie I won’t be but a minute.”  
“Charlie can get his own damned breakfast Jean, I want to know what’s happening.” He rises from her bed, both of them thankful he’s still in his y-fronts. “Keep your voice down Lucien.” She bends and pushes his trousers towards him, “He’ll hear you.”  
“Let him hear me, let all of bloody Ballarat hear me - I love you and last night -”  
“Was last night.” Her voice drops, “And last night is over and it’s never going to happen again.”  
“Jean?” His voice catches as he tries to take a step towards her, “You don’t -”  
“Mean that? I do.” She raises a hand to his chest to hold him off. “You’re a married man, Lucien. And this was a mistake.”  
“Don’t say that Jean.” He tries to reach a hand out towards her waist, but she begins to push him towards the the door.  
“This was a mistake.” She repeats, and with that, he finds himself alone in the hall, his pants still in his hands.


	3. Home

_Stand up straight at the foot of your love_  
Lay my head on the hood of your car  
I take it too far  
I never thought about love when I thought about home 

(The National - Bloodbuzz, Ohio)  
By the time he makes it to his room, Charlie has gone, no doubt hearing their argument upstairs. Before he can even bathe, the station is calling him in. He steps under the spray of the water and reluctantly scrubs away every last trace of his evening with Jean. He fights the urge to break everything within reach. He fights the urge to barge into her room and shake her, tell her he’s afraid, he’s exhilarated, he’s excited, he’s in love - all because of her. How did their little world become so cockeyed so quickly? He dresses quickly and leaves. There’s no tea, there’s no breakfast. The house is oddly silent. Tonight, tonight they’ll sit down like adults and he will lay it all out before her. He’ll fix it tonight. He has learned that Jean is stubborn, headstrong. Anything he says to her now she won’t hear, too focused in her own righteous indignation (of what, he’s not certain). He will give her a chance to cool down, to work through her emotions. He’ll fix it tonight. He doesn’t wonder how many times he’s said that to himself recently.

The day doesn't improve for Lucien. The body is young, so young. But before he and Alice finish the autopsy, they receive the call that the father has confessed. He and Alice finish, and he wants to ask Alice how she copes with it - when they’re so small, so undeserving of the fate that befalls them - but he doesn’t. He wishes he and Alice were closer or that he had an answer for his own question other than drinking himself to oblivion. That’s not a option, not tonight with Jean. He wants to go home tonight and just snap open his paper, Jean curled up sewing beside him. Has she ever curled up sewing beside him? He tries to remember - their closeness a slow and natural evolution that halted abruptly with a knock at the door. Can he mourn what wasn’t? Can he mourn what almost was? Alice bids him a good afternoon she returns to the wards and he soon after he has no other option than to return home. There’s a heaviness in his heart, a sense of dread at what lays waiting for him there. Not even with Mei Lin was there this gnawing at the pit of his stomach. 

He supposes he shouldn’t have been surprised by the sight of Jean in the drive, suitcases at her feet, surprise in her eye. The pulls up past her and gets out of the car - the crunch of his feet on the gravel as loud as his heart. “What’s this?” He asks, forced humour in his voice. “Going somewhere?”  
“Yes. The taxi’ll be here any moment.”  
“Taxi? What’s wrong with the car?” He shields his eyes from the bright afternoon sun behind her. He can’t quite see her, just her shape - a dark outline - an inverse of last night with her light skin glowing in the darkness of the night.  
“Wasn’t sure what time you’d be back.” She replies, her voice doing a passible imitation of normalcy for the sake of … who knows, actually.  
“Well I’m here now. No point in taking a taxi.”  
“It’ll be here any moment.”  
“We’ll call to cancel it.” He suggests, taking a case in hand and loading it in the car.  
“Hello Doctor, Mrs. Beazley. Off on a trip?” A third voice interrupts.  
“Hello Mrs. Nordstom!” Lucien calls out across the street to the neighbour at their fence.  
“Hello Mrs. Nordstom.” Jean repeats, fighting a grimace. She had hoped to avoid a scene like this. “Just off to visit some family is all.”  
“Well, safe travels.”   
“Thank you.” Jean smiles, noting Mrs. Nordstrom doesn’t quite move from her spot where she’s doing a pour job of tending to the flowers along the picket fence. She must’ve seen the kiss yesterday, she must’ve seen something. Heard something. She stands rooted in her spot, mind racing with what could’ve given them away until Lucien gently touches her, jolting her from her thoughts. “Jean? You don’t have to do this.”  
“Nothing’s changed Lucien.”  
“Clearly something has.” He retorts. “But it’s your choice Jean. I meant what I said this morning. I l-”  
“Lucien!” She cuts him off. “Mei Lin -”  
“And I are getting a divorce.” He loads the second case in the car.  
“She just left Lucien.”  
“Yes, and she had the decency to say good bye.” He moves towards the driver’s door. “Are you coming?” She stares him down, long and hard in the way only she could, as if she was parsing him down action and reaction, his cause and his effects. “Don’t want to miss your bus.”  
“Just to the station.”  
“Of course.” He smiles at her, charming and heartbreaking, before he moves to open the passenger door for her.

The ride is passed by making small talk - empty and meaningless. He doesn’t need to ask where she’s going. She doesn’t need to offer it. It’s not even until they pull up to the depot do they even acknowledge anything of value, anything between them. “There it is.”  
“There it is.” They both gaze at the driver and passengers all stepping out of the bus and stretching their legs. “You know I could drive you?” He offers, not looking at her.  
“That’s very kind Doctor Blake -”  
“You called me Lucien last night. You called me Lucien in the drive.”  
“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”  
“I don’t understand why it needs to be anything more than a friend offering to drive you. Adelaide. Melbourne. I have a friend in Melbourne I think you’d adore.”  
“Lucien…”  
“That’s better.”  
“I need to go. After last night-”  
“After last night what? What’s changed, Jean?”  
“Do you really need to ask?”  
“I really do Jean, yes. You like to hold everything so close. You don’t have to. Not anymore.”  
“I have to go.”  
“I don’t think you do. Let me drive you? Let me do this for you. Please?”  
“Lucien…” She watches as the bus driver returns to the bus. She has to leave now if she’s going to catch it. “Jean, you asked for one night.”  
“Please don’t -”  
“You asked for one night. This is me asking for one night as well. I don’t have any right to ask, I know, I know. But Jean, one night to drive you? Please.”

Jean sits absolutely still, hands in her lap, unable to look at him. She hates causing him this much pain. Last night was selfish of her, but even so, it doesn’t mean she won’t replay it endlessly in her mind. One night to love him openly and freely. She knew it was their last night together and that allowed her to savour it. To memorise and mark every sound and sight. Doesn’t he deserve the same? If she’s going to hurt him, shouldn’t she try to do it as gently as possible.

The bus pulls out of the depot, Jean Beazley isn’t on it.

“Well then…” Lucien eventually says, starting the car back up. Jean only sighs and leans her head against the window. “I suppose we should be off.”


End file.
